Fire Eyes, Ice Heart, Dark Mind
by Pale White Shadow
Summary: The Dragonborn is a god amongst men and mer. Surely he can not be confined to the land of Skyrim forever? A dark tale of intrigue and bloodshed delving deep into the Elder Scrolls series past. Rated M for gore, depravity, and language.
1. Dark Tidings

The cavern was a desolate and foreboding scene with stalactites frosted over with ice and a chill mist hanging about in the air like a pale spectre waiting to grasp at the nearest source of life and drain it. It was a strange thing, then, that a finely-clothed and groomed Breton man sat upon a stool before a fire looking as if he would rather be anywhere in all of Nirn than this dim den, feverishly searching the shadows as if expecting something to jump out from them. Indeed, one would find his apparent fears justified with the addition of two heavily armored guards stationed on either side of him. Why these men were in this particular frost-ringed cave could be the subject of much scholarly debate alone had the Breton's presentiment suddenly come true with the waspish twang of a bowstring snapping home, the hiss of an arrow flying, and the wet thud of purchase as the dart struck home into the throat of a previously unseen man who materialized into existence as he began to choke and gargle on the blood now welling up in his throat.

There was the ringing of mail and the rasping of blades leaving scabbards as the two visible guards jostled into position, hefting their tower shields and forming a small phalanx just as another hiss was heard and yet another invisible man became suddenly discernable in the darkness as he fell to his knees clutching at the bolt protruding from his heart. An ethereal figure was outlined in the midst of them all as a ray of purple light was conjured into being before being immediately extinguished in a wisp of aural impotence by a sphere of fire sent toward the mage's face. The scent of burnt flesh, singed hair, and cauterizing blood rent the air as the caster's now headless body fell limp to the craggy surface.

One of the guards, having seen the direction the spell had come from, abandoned her post and charged toward the source of the incineration casting. She lifted her longsword high above her head, shield braced before herself, yelling with fearful abandon and ready to strike when a blur in the macrocosm leapt at her, meeting her in her charge with a thunderous clang. The charging woman was lifted from her feet and hurled backwards, being driven to the ground by the shade tackling her in a tumulting clash of armor and stone. In one swift movement the blearing figure slit the woman's throat before unceremoniously flinging the coalescing blade directly between the eyes of the last guard, leaving only the Breton and the phantom in the den. The apparition adopted a more casual stance, manifesting into a corporeal figure of indiscernible race in skin-tight black leather armor, a hood and mask adorning his features to give further anonymity. The Breton by this point had pissed his pants and was cowering against the far wall, eyes screwed shut and holding the stool before him as if to ward off any attacks.

"Emperor Titus Mede II is dead." the black-garbed man intoned gravely, his voice a harsh gravelly rasp that grated throughout the cavern.

At this the Breton's eyes opened. "Oh. It's you."

"You were expecting Sheogorath, maybe?" was the snarky response he received as the assassin strode forward to pluck his blade from Amaund Motierre's bodyguard's corpse's face with a wet squelch.

"With the way you entered… nevermind. He's dead, you say?" the noble asked, excitement creeping into his voice, the urine soaking his crotch and the brutalized bodies of his entourage forgotten for the moment.

"Like a goat roasting over a spit. I made sure the tale would be one for the ages. After all, it's not everyday one gets to assassinate their own emperor. I could hear the guards starting to vomit before I leapt from the ship. Now, this little adventure has cost me a lot of my time, a bit of my blood, and some very dear friends in pursuit of this vision of yours, Motierre." the brother growled menacingly. "Needless to say, I am not happy."

"You will be compensated, I can-" the Breton began.

"Oh no. Oh no no no no my dear councilman, this isn't just about money anymore. You see, I've had some time to think since this contract started." the man chuckled. It was a dark sounding thing, like a blade being sliced back and forth across someone's gullet. "A lot of time, actually. Events have been set in motion. Many events that I'm sure you're unaware of while you hid under this rock. And this does not even culminate it at all!" he cried out, his voice ringing throughout the cavern.

"Yes… yes, you assassins love your riddles. In any case, you won't have to go far for the-" Amaund began before being silenced by the blade in the man's hand suddenly being found next to his right ear.

"The Emperor asked me a favor before he died." the assassin growled. "Wanted me to kill you. Said you were the one who set the machine in motion. Well, contrary to what most would expect from a lowly assassin, I'm not going to do that. I have something more… subtle in mind. You see, I'm not stupid. I know there are underworkings here that go far beyond this Skyrim horseshit. And I want in. And you're going to help me. I've already started machinations of my own. I just need someone who already has their foot in the door." he calmly told the terrified Breton as he strode back to where he had been before he began his attack.

"What are you babbling about?! We had a deal! The Emperor is dead, you can collect your gold and be on about your way, we never have to see each other again!" Motierre exclaimed, fear creeping into his voice once more.

"Oh no my dear councilman. You and I are going to be seeing each other a lot." the man told the Breton as he hefted a bag out from the darkness, throwing it in front of the fire with a loud clanking to be heard from inside.

"What more do you want from me?! What is that thing?!" Amaund screamed, the purest pinnacle of panic by this point as the dark man began extricating a strange instrument from the haversack, a large metallic band that looked more suited to hold a wagon wheel than anything else. Runes dimly glowed a myriad of colors across the shimmering surface, the band made of a twisted ebony the likes of which those on Mundus should not possess.

"An insurance policy." the man calmly told Amaund as he unclasped the band, the Breton's eyes going even wider with the horror of realization at what it was: a giant manacle, large enough to fit around his midriff.

"Now get naked."


	2. Fire-Eyes

Vorgn Fire-Eyes, Dragonborn and legate of the Imperial Legion, stood before the bridge leading to the gates of Windhelm and took a moment to watch the ancient Nordic city burn from the Imperial assault. He leaned on his staff as he watched a flaming catapult missile fly overhead and smash into the wall on the far side, sending stone and mortar tumbling down along with some hapless guards manning the walls. He made a formidable sight in his armor composed of the bones and scales of the creatures he had slain and consumed the souls of, tales well known throughout the land by this point, his facial features obscured by a peculiar moonstone mask that glinted blue with enchantment. At his hip two blades rested in their scabbards, a gilded broadsword with a peculiar circular looping crossguard that seemed to host some subdued radiance of brilliant light, and its apparent counterpart in the form of a sable katana etched in glowing red runes that pulsated like the heartbeat of a dying man. The staff he leaned upon was a spiked and wicked instrument adorned with what appeared to be a tortured horned skull. He idly tapped the butt of it against the masonry, watching as yet another conflagrant boulder whooshed overhead to slam into the wall across the river. It had finally come to this. After Alduin, the Volkihar, Hermaeus Mora, Miraak, dealing with the Eye of Magnus, delving into the aberrant of Oblivion, and all the many other things that had transpired in the last year of his mortal life… now it came to this. Ending this civil war. It seemed almost anti-climatic. Vorgn had given Stormcloak a chance to surrender. The man had refused, so now Fire-Eyes had no choice but to put him to the sword as best he knew how, starting with the city.

He turned on his heel, spinning about on the staff to regard the organized troop that had assembled behind him, a cohort of one hundred men ready to rush toward the den of the bear that was Stormcloak's fortress city. Many of these men had served with him throughout the entire campaign, Hadvar prominent among them in the foremost column just before him. The fierce Nord caught his eye and nodded with the grim expression mirrored on the face of every legionnaire in the ranks, blades already unsheathed and at the ready for the call for the charge. The other troopers seemed to not know where to place their eyes, however, as their attention was split between the fearsome warrior before them and the general commanding their legion residing next to him. Tullius himself seemed to not be able to help but eye the Dragonborn's gear.

"You know that's not regulation whatsoever." he muttered quietly so that only Vorgn could hear.

"With all due respect sir, this is the final assault, and you need me at my best." was the answering grumble, the sound of stone grinding against stone. "We still have to defeat Ulfric. The man is a Tongue, learned in the Voice. He may not be my greatest enemy, but a great enemy I know he be nonetheless. I would hate to think of you having to go against him alone. The man can rip you apart with words. But so can I."

"Point taken, legate. At your behest. I leave the assault to you now." the general notified with a nod and a clap of his hand on one of Vorgn's pauldrons before taking a few resolute steps away from the juggernaut. It was the Nord's cue to begin his speech.

"MY FELLOW LEGIONNAIRES!" the brute in dragonhide bellowed as he lifted his staff high above his head with one hand, his Voice carrying over to every man and even shaking the bridge of Windhelm. "Today is a day we have waited long for! We now stand at the literal gates of ending this pathetic rebellion!" he roared, and the men lifted their blades high above their heads and cheered wildly. "For three months I have fought beside you! Led you in glorious battle! To immense victory! Snowhawk! To shameful defeat! Dunstad! Battle after battle against this usurper, against this blackguard to the Empire! Against this so-called Bear of Eastmarch who would claim the throne of Skyrim! Well, I ask you, what sort of proud Nord would sink so low as to use assassins to weaken our Empire?!" he screamed out, and the men cried out louder, working themselves into a frenzy. "Is that the ploy of a true warrior?! Of a bear?! Nay! I call him a snake and a milk-drinker!" he blared to his troops, causing a fierce cry from the Nords in the unit. "Ulfric Stormcloak had our Emperor murdered here under our watch! It is time to end this! Let us put an end to these traitors, to this rabble that dares call themselves an army! For the Empire! For the Legion! Charge!" Vorgn roared as he about-faced and led the charge across the bridge, the cohort and Tullius not far behind him sounding a wordless battle cry as they raced toward the gates of Windhelm. Arrows began to zip toward him as he sprinted down the stone passageway, many finding their mark on Vorgn but glancing off of the plating of his bone armor. He surged toward the mighty gates of the city, now an obstacle between the Legion cohort and the Stormcloak mob surely ganged up behind it. Vorgn was prepared for that, however.

"FUS RO DAH!" was the cry to be heard before an unrelenting force was ripped from Fire-Eyes' throat and sent crashing into the grand timbers, pushing them backward where they had never been machinated to motion. There was a tremendous splintering noise to be heard followed by a loud whoosh as the mighty gates flew inward into the city, smashing into the assembled ragtag warriors waiting beyond that had assembled before Candlehearth Hall. The gates were thrown well into the city, even smashing into the hall… and blocking the direct route to the Palace of Kings were Ulfric resided. Vorgn cursed as he realized what he had done. The Stormcloaks gave a cry of outrage and confusion as the Dragonborn thundered into the city, hefting the staff now emanating a caustic-looking aura and thrusting it forward to fire a bolt of energy at the nearest rebel standing before him elevated atop the steps leading to the hall. The man took the magical missile in the chest and immediately fell to the snowy stonework screaming and writhing. Vorgn took aim and fired again, and another blue-clad Nord fell shrieking. He let loose another bolt from the staff, and again, and again, attempting to strike at all he could while they were still in shock of his shout, the legate becoming aware that the cohort was beginning to pour into the city as the wailing cries of Ulfric's troops rent the air as he continued to blast at any Stormcloak in sight.

Legionnaires began to rush past Vorgn and he halted his castings of the staff in case of friendly fire. The ringing of steel clashing against steel and the yellings of battle was to be heard in the frozen night air as soldier met soldier in the rugged city square. Vorgn looked to the Palace of Kings and cursed once more that he had blocked the direct route himself. He paused for a moment to open a satchel situated at his midriff… and then stuffed the staff inside of it, an impossible feat just by sheer size yet a feat achieved nonetheless. He then drew the strange gilded broadsword which became alight with an ethereal brilliance at his touch, his other hand becoming alight with a myriad of luminous rays as he readied his spells for combat.

Just as Vorgn began to look up from his preoccupation, he found the head of a Nordic axe being directed toward his face. It was only the moonstone mask that saved him, steel biting in deep and rocking his head back from the force of the blow. The Dragonborn lifted his glowing hand toward his attacker's own face and unleashed a spray of raw magicka in retaliation, simultaneously burning, freezing, and electrocuting the man's noggin. The rebel was blown back as if struck by a troll, slamming into a wall and collapsing in a smoking heap.

"Legate! Let's move!" Vorgn heard Tullius bark from behind him having just entered the city, his lieutenant Rikke by his side with a contingent of legionnaires. Fire-Eyes nodded, resisting the urge to massage the new gouge on his mask. With troopers and rebels falling on either side of him Vorgn turned left, heading west toward the stairs that led to the market square. He plunged Dawnbreaker into the back of an unsuspecting Stormcloak backing away from his new kill, kicking the man off his blade as he felt the annoying pinging of arrows against his mail. The legionnaire could see the barricade the rebels had erected atop the staircase leading to the market, a group of archers firing missiles at any trooper in sight. The battle was a mass of chaos, most of the cohort focused on the rebels in the main square, unaware they were being picked off by this cowardly group off to the side.

Fire-Eyes dashed ahead, secure in his armor as the archers realized exactly who pelted toward them. It was not long before the Dragonborn was upon them.

"YOL TOOR SHUL!" came the bellow as a stream of intense fire leapt from Vorgn's throat, pouring into the narrow stairway and incinerating the woeful defenders. Ignoring the heat, the legate continued through, rounding the corner near the blacksmith's forge only to find a Stormcloak leap out at him, swiping at chest level with his greatsword with a beastly snarl. The blade crashed into into his cuirass and drove the wind from his lungs, chipping into the dragon plating. Vorgn growled, delivering an overhead swipe with Dawnbreaker but the rebel was quick, blocking with the flat of his blade. The parry did not faze the Dragonborn, however, as he swiftly stepped closer to his enemy and grasped him by the throat before sending a surge of electrical magicka through his body. The result was a Nord with a charred neck laying upon the ground as Fire-Eyes raced past him, darting past the alcove leading to the next section.

The next section consisted of the more open street occupied with ten rushing Stormcloaks below his position atop the staircase. He threw caution to the winds and jumped from on high into the midst of them, landing atop one and bowling over a few more, rolling away from the ensuing tangled mass of men. He blindly spun about, swiped with Dawnbreaker, and was rewarded with the crunch of steel meeting bone as the otherworldly material easily cut through the rebel's chain shirt and slashed through most of his torso, the Dragonborn's strength causing a few of the man's ribs to be severed from the rest. He lifted his palm and blasted another Stormcloak with a powerful ice spell, catching a glimpse of a rushing rebel coming for him as the other defenders attempted to get back to their feet. Vorgn spun on his heel and lifted his foot into the air, catching the man in the abdomen in the midst of his charge. He spat bile onto the Dragonborn's mail before Meridia's blade entered and exited his skull in one deft movement.

Battle cries were heard behind him and Vorgn was pleased to see more legionnaires pouring out from where he came, the general and his lieutenant among them.

"We're almost there legate!" he heard the general cry after expertly firing an arrow into the skull of a rising Nord. "Let's bring this bastard to justice!"

Vorgn simply lifted his sword and headed forward, up the stairs toward the Hall of the Dead. He took a corner right, knowing that it would be an alleyway leading to the Palace. And there it was, with five Stormcloaks breaking down it yelling their battle-cries.

"WULD NAH KEST!" was the Shout Vorgn used to take care of them, his body being suddenly shot forward like a massive arrow, sending him crashing through the troops and leaving them broken in the wake of his whirlwind sprint. He continued on, using his magicka to blast away yet another barricade before finally entering the courtyard of the Palace of Kings, finding it empty save for the rubble, debris, and fire strewn about from the assault.

"Now we can end this." Vorgn heard Tullius saying as he entered the burning courtyard. "Vorgn, Rikke, I want you with me. Ulfric will fight like a cornered rat. He knows this is the end. I'll need you both to put him to the sword. Quaestor, secure this door." he ordered a nearby legionnaire as he strode to the Dragonborn. "After you." he smiled, apparently giddy with the battle, gesturing to the ancient doors of the Palace of Kings. Vorgn postured himself before the great apertures, readying himself before he threw them open, ready to change the fate of Skyrim.


End file.
